


The Tiger's Tale

by TigerStripedSniper (seazu)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Headcanon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-08
Updated: 2014-02-27
Packaged: 2017-11-09 10:06:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 10,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454270
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seazu/pseuds/TigerStripedSniper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Disjointed Headcanon-y stories about Sebastian Moran based on several different prompts.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. If I Die, Before I Wake

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt #1: "What does he think about before sleeping?"

There was a chill in the air. It hung sharp and cold like daggers, prickling across his body in the dark room. A peel of moonlight, orange-dull glow of street lamps forced through the gap in the partially-drawn curtains and lay across the floor; crawling forward subtly with every second that ticked by.

_Tick tick tick._

Every second punctuated by the incessant beating of the wristwatch on the bedside table.

_Tick tick tick._

Every second another moment spent awake, and in the company of his own thoughts.

There was a chill in the air, and yet the man lay sprawled out on the bed like he had in a hundred different beds, on park-benches and floors and backseats and any relatively flat surface available when the sun set. Eyes set on the ceiling. Imagining everything but what was pushing to get out. The horrible thoughts and memories that gnawed and clawed and ripped to get to the forefront of his mind, so intent on his remembering. But why? Why did they need him to acknowledge them so desperately?

Wasn’t it enough that every time he heard that sound, smelled that smell, saw a familiar face, they popped up? Why did they need him to linger? What was so important?

He hated that moment; when darkness painted everything black and he was forced to shut his eyes and think of all of the horrible parts of his past he fought so strongly during waking life to forget. He had been dealt so many bad hands, spat on and glared at by society, beaten and trodden on for what he’d done. But mostly, there was no other option. He would choose survival every time. So there wasn’t much of his past that he regretted, only parts that he couldn’t throw away.

Apart from that _tick tick tick_ , the room was silent.

But ex-Colonel Sebastian Moran couldn’t hear the silence over the screams of the hundreds of tormented souls that lived inside of him. Always trying to get out.

He wasn’t like his employer.

He couldn’t forget.

He would live forever with the memories he had created, with the questions circling and circling like water down a drain that never really sank into nothingness. He prayed for death. He prayed for release. To just be that nothingness, floating in peace in a great abyss. _Oh sweet nirvana…_

But no matter how close he came to shaking Death’s bony hand, he always seemed to make some grand escape. He didn’t fear it, never had, never would. He welcomed it. If some afterlife did exist, he would take the punishment for his sins. A fiery whip for every crime. Every life he had taken, every tear loved ones wept, every stolen possession and lie and beating and fuck and curse; he would take it all with a willing smile.

Anything was better than this.

But maybe this was his torture.

He had read once, the theory that after death the brain continues activity for around seven minutes; and that since dreams that last a minute seem to last for hours, a person’s whole life could be a creation in the last moments before death. But he thought if this were true, he must have been some sadistic bastard anyway to think this life up. If this was an improvement, a fantasy compared to the last… he dreaded to think what reality he left behind.

The irony in his lifestyle was that he carried every corpse with him, but he only felt truly awake and alive when he was taking the life of another. The more he killed, the more tormented he became, but like any addiction he always craved the next job. And he didn’t feel right until he was on it.

This story had two endings:

He died; or he was caught.

He prayed for the former.

Prayed. That was an interesting idea. Maybe this was all Catholic guilt. Maybe the burdens he carried now were because of the religion forced on him as a young boy by his mother. No wonder he chose to be Agnostic, but that guilt never really left you.

He blinked, slowly. Eyes heavy and dry from fatigue. But even still, he couldn’t find sleep. Lost in the oblivion. Silent. Dying, always, but never dead. Cold, motionless, _emotionless_ , but still so very much living.

He would keep fighting off the thoughts, because letting them win, admitting they were there… he might as well be dead, for he would have shaken the hand of insanity rather than his old friend.

_Tick tick tick._

There was a chill in the air. Sebastian would choose survival every time, but martyr as he was, he wouldn’t move to pull the blankets closer just to shield himself from the cold.


	2. Tell me, where is darkness bred?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The inner thoughts of Sebastian Moran on his time in the service.

It didn’t rain.

It was seconds, minutes, hours, days, months and it didn’t rain. I remember wishing it would, just a drop. I dreamt of rain. I dreamt of rivers and oceans; I fantasised of that sweet dew that hung on the leaves in the cold mornings at home.  But this wasn’t home.

This was far from home.

There was a dryness that hung in the air. It made your tongue swell and your shirt cling, skin slick with sweat. The heat was nauseating. Constant. Until the harsh cold of night settled in. Surrounded by men, a family, but it was shatteringly lonely.

I think that now, but then, in the moment, it was a brotherhood. It was screaming and writhing and bleeding and it was brotherhood. An oblivion; lost, and so complete.

War takes good men and turns them into dogs.

It doesn’t matter how well-trained you are; how skilled or smart or strong or brave – whether you live or die is all down to luck. If you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time, even a stray bullet could send you to your maker. I think it was the first time we were in actual conflict with the enemy that we realised that fact. A shared thought, a mass understanding; that we were all equals here. Laid out before God, putting our fates in the men around us and the enemy before us.

It’s humbling, to stare in the face of the man you were sent to kill. A man you’ve never met before, with a life and a family you’ll never know about. To stare in his eyes and know that you were trained to be here, that every second of your life before now had built to this moment – and here was someone taught to hate you in the same way you were bred to hate them. It was humbling to recognise that same fear and hatred and misplaced devotion in his eyes, despite culture and language and every other barrier placed between you and this stranger. His expression reflected in yours. This moment something he and I would share. Humbling to see the life flow out of him in a final shuddering breath. Did he know it would be his last?

We both knew, it could be.

And you can’t help but look at him and think: _that could have been me_.

A man can’t afford to think like that in such a situation. We are told to think ‘it’s him, or me’. We are told, and therefore we do. Bad men, good soldiers. We are taught to use our basic survival instincts for the better of ourselves, our men, our country.

We walk through another man’s land, knowing that the things we’re doing in the name of England or Ireland or America… these are things that at home, in the _real_ world, would put our names in the papers. My face in the harsh black and white grain, murderer, serial killer, butcher, slaughterer of my fellow man, littered around me. The words, like the bodies. The media twisting me into a harsh, cold monster. How was I really any different? How am I really any different?

Why is it that when it’s ‘for my country’, I’m doing you proud? Why are words like ‘hero’ attached to me and my brothers; but in the real world, I’m a vile, putrid being. Scum of the Earth. A plague.

If I kill for honour, I’m valiant. If I kill for money, I’m filth.

Butt of the gun against my cheek and shoulder, breathing in, breathing out; squeezing the trigger; another heart stops. The weight of every soul clawing at my back. Dark little thoughts starting to cluster in my mind, growing and breeding, letting darkness spread.

Tell me, where is darkness bred; in the heart or in the head? How is it created , how is it fed? With every man stricken dead? Under my wrathful fist, each body crushed because _I_ am seeing red? Where is the fairness in that; why should I be burdened with the ability to judge these men for their sins? Because I was given a gun, _I_ am the almighty?

Better for money, than for country. Better that I be selfish than supreme.

Better to be numb.

It takes a while, but eventually every soldier will numb or die trying. Some get used to it faster than others. It becomes a reaction, like catching a ball or just breathing. It’s natural. Killer instinct, in the hunter-gatherer sense of the term. It’s the reason it’s so hard to come back to life, to walk down a street and realise that you don’t need to look at everyone as if they’re a potential target or a threat. Things like that dull, but never disappear. Not when you’ve felt the fear and the adrenaline from being in the middle of it all. Always feeling like someone’s pointing a gun at your back. Never feeling safe. Not without the weight of that metal pressed against your flesh.

After that, you yearn for normality, for a haven, a home. Some comfort blanket, safety. Security. And yet somehow, parallel to that, you wish to be back there. In the heat. Without rain. With shouts and cries and whizzing bullets that come just a little too close. Everyday life is monotony. It’s too quiet, too normal.

Only feeling alive when you take the life of another? What sort of existence is that?

Especially when every life you take is another riding on your back, on your soul.

War takes good men, gives them everything and before they realise it, everything is gone.

It wipes up everything you once were and leaves behind a shell, covered in scars and filled with regret.

I am not a man burdened with decision; I was once a man, now burdened with regret. 


	3. Don't

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Magic Anon: Hug Jim

If Jim hadn’t been in the flat, the phone would have ended up in the drawer. The graveyard of shattered pieces of technology. Things he would never get fixed but for some reason couldn’t find in himself to throw out. 

It was a man thing.

If Jim hadn’t been so pleasant over the weekend, if things hadn’t gone quite so much better than expected; he might have been more surprised by the thank-you. The thank-you that was not a thank-you, of course. It was a rare thing. It usually went unsaid, it had been a pleasure for Jim to have this nice tea of his at first and then it became a necessity to avoid a bad mood. 

It was a psychopath thing.

If Jim hadn’t taken the time to show gratitude, it might never have occurred to him. 

Sure, it had been prompted by a dizzying conversation that stirred unwanted thoughts and feelings and brought them swirling to the surface. Things he had expertly forced down and away. But now that they were here, now that it had been suggested to him… or rather, forced on him…

He made a noise of frustration, still moseying around the kitchen. He had his work in here, spread across the table while Jim worked between the living-room and his own desk. It wasn’t like anyone but Sebastian used the kitchen table for food anyway, so it had become a make-shift office for him when they were both in the flat. When he was actually coerced into doing paperwork. 

It was in the contract.

He brushed his hands off his trousers subconsciously as he walked through to the other room, decidedly biting the bullet before he realised how much of a horrible idea this was. And it was already dawning on him.

“Don’t over-think this,” he said when he was behind Moriarty. “Don’t mention this again, don’t complicate it, just don’t.” He said firmly, knowing full well Jim’s only response to such commanding statements would be one along the lines of ‘I’m your boss, I can do what I want’. But it had to be said, even the echoed ‘don’t’ that followed after the last.

Jim had turned to face him with some curiosity, just a hint, almost undetectable; and Sebastian took this opportunity to lean over and hold him. Just for a moment. Back arched, mammoth arms closed around him and head nestled into his shoulder. It wasn’t emotional, it wasn’t soppy or some established new connection — it was just a moment. 

A moment that swiftly ended as Sebastian suddenly pulled away and turned his heel with a military clip in his step as he left the room again. Muttering another ‘don’t’ as he did so. 

It was only once he had walked out of sight that he breathed again.


	4. A Series of Monumental Events

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon #3: Morals and Standards

Should it be considered good that I claim to hold some morals close, or is it twisted? As some say my soul is. Are they as empty or non-existent as others claim my heart to be? For I am a man, and have been since I was a boy; if that could be true. A man should always uphold some form of morals. 

Is it wrong for me to say that I could now never harm a child, when once upon a time I had little second thought when it came to using them as bait? Tiger-striped children, tied to the tree in which I perched. Tiger-striped children wailing and crying for their mothers arms to close around them once more. To feel that warmth and heat and protection, not wet little cheeks and fear on their lips instead of a mother’s soft kiss. 

Is it hypocrisy that should be tattooed to my skin, since I now claim no God despite my upbringing. That I see no truth to the lies pouring from the Vatican. And yet, in torrents of rage, and anger that makes my flesh tighten and blood rip through my veins, I will take the sweet Lord’s name? A sin. A dark sin. One of ten that the good Christian should not break. 

But then, what good Christian takes the life of another for money — if indeed that is the true incentive, and not just what I’ve been telling myself all of this time. And when that hot little bullet digs through my brother’s flesh and bone, I shed no tear, nor do I feel remorse. I only feel alive. As if sapping what’s left of his into my own withering body will restore some power, some freedom and happiness. 

And I spend each moment in between, dragging my limp carcass through the monotonous routine of every day torment like some caricature of an original Dalí. And I wade through the dripping abyss for that next spark of life that I can capture and cage within me with the whisper of a bullet through the air. The delicate dance of a stranger in one final act of grace they never thought themselves capable of before they fall fall fall to the ground with a dull thud unheard. Until then, I have only the darkness seeping into the very essence of my soul. I have “life” with the colour sucked out and the volume on mute. 

And what life is that if anything? A series of monumental events, splitting up the dull endlessness in-between. A series of meaningless fucks and hair-splitting moans, split milk and coffee rings, slammed breaks and almost-car accidents, bloodshot eyes, barking dogs, breathless chitter-chatter, unslept nights, unused days, darkness neverending.

And then it ends.

All of it.

And for what?

A plump little bank-account, unsolved crimes and a fine collection of guns. 

But all for those few little moments that have been truly lived.

So why give a damn about morals and standards?


	5. Untitled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon #4: Thoughts on Airports

A thousand lonely people, trapped. Flaws and imperfections illuminated by the harsh white light shining down on them. Always shining down. Polished tiles still scuffed by the feet shuffling and sprinting and circling aimlessly. Back and forth and back and forth and empty. A thousand lonely people, each one with a story to tell, a journey before them and a journey behind them, but no one stops to talk. No one stops to ask how did you get here?  
There’s a lengthy tale on every person’s lips, waiting for the question that will never be asked; and they sit and they wait but the words never come. They will die without ever being asked. How many of these stories die every day, never having a chance to be told. Where did you come from, where were you going, how did you get here?

And as announcements ring in barely legible tones across the great wide expanse, everyone hushes in unison; stretching forward to hear. Sighs and whispers and disgruntled noises; an echo of ancestors they all share, but never think of, never consider. And still, they sit and they wait. Until that one moment of relief when they can join another never-ending queue. A line of people, orderly strangers. And maybe, just maybe, someone will be brave enough to share the thought on everyone’s mind, and in response a stifled agreement or a burst of conversation they both wanted and didn’t want.

A thousand lonely people, a thousand unmade friends and enemies. Love and hate left untouched.

Your most prized possessions, and bare necessities, laid out for all to see. Reddened cheeks – is that embarrassment or rage? Most quiet, some loud, but always a smog of a thousand voices hanging above it all, blurring the lines between awkward silence and vague conversation. And you repeat the same rehearsed lines again and again until your face becomes lined from the same expressions, that Barbie-doll smile and helpful attitude.

The sour smell of alcohol lingers in the air, musty and comforting with warmer lights and dark woods and you can swallow courage and speak to a man who hears more tales that he cares for, the man who hears the stories without ever asking or wanting to know. They stop dead there, last call, all aboard, is he even really listening? Is he thinking of where he could be, what he could be doing, who he could be doing?

And snippets of conversation picked up by the invisibles. Shifting around you, stealing things you no longer care for, coveting and discarding. Hearing things they shouldn’t hear, stitching them together in a horrid Frankenstein quilt of words and names and secrets. The story becomes a monster that is passed on in fragments, gasped about and laughed about but it dies there too.

And in a secret room, where stories are collected and sold at base rate, people pass through and glance and browse. Looking for something to suckle on that will only be stolen by the invisibles in time or forgotten on a lonely shelf with it’s disconnected siblings. No one learns, it’s all forgotten. They want the shallow not the deep, and it’s the shallow that is bought and sold at alarming rates but thrown at their feet with so much more ease and so little regret.

Another announcement whispers through the expanse and crowds shift, a run breaks out on exhausted carpet. The friction static ripples below poorly chosen shoes as they reach the great crescendo of this middle journey. And young eyes stare in wonderment through thick-glass windows, and Barbie-doll smiles break through plastic faces with too-white teeth and fake everythings. And a thousand lonely people are cut down to a hundred lonely people, and they huddle in manufactured safety that never really existed. And they sit and they wait. And strangers lean away from strangers and no one asks how did you get here. But everyone knows where they are going. And everyone hopes that’s where they’ll end up, but a residual fear lingers; something that ties a thousand lonely strangers together.


	6. An Education in the Imagined | The Tale of Jeremy Bristow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon #5: Sebastian playing a character.

“C-come on now, everyone sit-down, okay?”

Nothing.

“Hey, stop that Chester, we don’t hit.”

Nope.

“Listen everyone, are we listening?”

May as well not even be there.

Sebastian’s face fell into something akin to desperation as he slumped behind his desk. The class was going mad, as hyperactive six-year-olds will when there’s no sense of authority around. He watched them, eyebrows pushed up as he sunk into cupped hands. He was a failure.

Now, I know there are at least three things running through your head right now, and I’m a nice guy, so I’m more than happy to address those thoughts.

First of all, you’re wondering why in God’s name Sebastian Moran is surrounded by whiny little brats. Well, I’ll tell you why. Because he’s their substitute teacher. Obviously. Come on, I thought you were proud of your observational skills. Hah.

Alright then, second: ‘but Mister Narrator, why is the great, charming, handsome Sebastian Moran being so nice and giving in so easily?’ Well, since you asked, that might have something to do with the fact that he’s not actually Sebastian Moran. I know, unreliable Narrator – it happens, it’s happening right now. You’re just going to have to deal with it. The give-away should have been “I’m a nice guy”.  
What do you mean “so tell me about the third thing?” How the fuck should I know what you’re thinking about? I’m not a bloody mind-reader. I’m just gracious enough to assume that if you’re smart enough to know who I am, you’re probably capable of more than two thoughts occupying your mind at any given time.

So who is Sebastian if not Sebastian? That’s easy. He’s Jeremy Bristow. Recently turned forty, primary school teacher, lives in London with his long-term partner, interior designer Drewie Hickey. Simple enough, right?

Seriously?

You still ain’t gettin’ this?

Christ do I have to spell it out for you?

Right, okay okay, so you know me, you must know the boss. Dear old Jimmy has a tendency to invent little characters here and there when needs be (for example, Jim Zucco from I.T., or Bernard something-or-fucking-other the antiquarian, Alfie Skinner the Lawyer/Accountant/all-round face of the business when Moriarty needs a middle man, and ‘M’, how most people know him. Trust me though, the list goes on and on and on). Needless to say, I have a few of my own, some of them tying into his disguises when an accomplice is necessary. Yeah, I don’t get much of a say in most of those, he usually just starts lecturing me with facts about some made up bloke with a dumb-fuck name that I have to remember. Throws me in some ridiculous outfit, tells me as much of the plan as I need to know and life rolls on.

Jeremy Bristow is one of those guys, and if you’re smart you’ll have guessed Drewie is Jim’s masterpiece. I mean those guys, they were born pretty spontaneously actually, but… not even a slight favourite of mine. And you’ll understand why, eventually. Calm yourself, seriously. Let’s get some pace to this thing.

The origin isn’t really important, I might touch back on it in a bit though so… remember that. The topic at hand is why an army-trained marksman turned gun-for-hire is in a classroom filled with screaming kids and doing shit-all about it. Well, see, Moriarty is pretty particular about the details, and I ain’t much of an actor by any stretch of the imagination; so he figures a bit of method acting or whatever it’s called might do me some good.

Sets me up with some pretty good credentials, a whole reason to turn up at this Primary School Monday morning in an outfit that makes me want to beat myself up and with a can-do attitude that would earn most smug little shits a special visit from myself. Tells me specifically to become Jeremy, to leave Sebastian Moran at the door because he doesn’t belong here, (yeah, no shit Sherlock), to adapt to the situation and behave accordingly and blah blah blah. So I nod, whatever, and pack my trunk to go off to the circus.

Ergo, screaming kids, lack of control, pussy-footing around them.

But alright. Unreliable narrator strikes again. When I said “Sebastian’s face fell” and all that shite, it might have been closer to this:

Sebastian’s face grew dark, his eye was practically twitching with infuriation at the little bastards. It had been a long time since he had been ignored, least of all by little shit-stains like these. And he wasn’t about to let that happen, fuck Moriarty’s orders, fuck Jeremy Bristow.

“Quiet”

One word.

And it ripped through the noise, the talking, the screaming, the laughter. Every child in the room had frozen, because it was such a dramatic twist from the quiet-spoken good-natured man that had entered the classroom to this suddenly giant-looking monster with cold dead eyes and an expression that would give most grown men chills.

But with that out of the way, his voice could float back down to a soft intensity that was his trademark. And as he walked away from his desk around the class, catching each child’s eye as he went, arms clasped behind his back, reducing each one to a slobbering mess of fear, he spoke. “Now you listen to me, I don’t want to be here trying to educate you little runts any more than your parents want you, especially when the best part of your brains is blown out your nose in the morning. But you will respect me, you will listen to what I say and you will do as you are told.

“Anyone who disobeys an order will be punished. And I’m not talking about your standing in the corner or sending you to the principal kind of punishment. I’m talking fifty laps of the playground, as many push-ups as I can get out of you, or if you’d prefer I can acquaint your asses with my belt. Your decision.

“But I recommend you avoid that altogether by doing exactly as you’re told.

“Now… sit.”

I think you know, they sat. Some cried, but they all sat.

Once the more rebellious little bastards understood I wasn’t joking about my idea of punishments, there wasn’t a peep out of them. And they didn’t dare step out of line when I did eventually sink into that twat of an alias Jim had set out for me, Jeremy fucking Bristow. I wouldn’t be here if he hadn’t forced me to take on that bloody—… later. Later.

So I could plaster on a fake smile, and I could charm the knickers off every female teacher (of a certain age, come on, I have standards) in the school (oh right, apart from the fact that I was playing a gay guy) and the kids would still stand to attention and follow me to the dinner hall in a perfect line, perfectly in-sync. It was beautiful. And completely worth the bewildered glances from other teachers and some pupils. How was it that this irritatingly sweet, patient man had whipped a trouble class into shape so quickly?

Well, if the Army teaches you nothing…

Look, the way I see it, I was doing these kids and their families a favour. I fixed them.

And that allowed me space to work on Jeremy. Moriarty’s whole reason behind this, if I had to guess, was to see if I could convince a whole school of watching eyes that Jeremy Bristow was real. Convince them, and I could convince anyone; and that would make a good disguise.

Course my best would never stand up next to Moriarty’s. He had this way of letting this whole other person consume him, and the show he puts on as Andrew Hickey is the reason I hate these bloody guys so much (like I mentioned earlier, were you paying attention? If not… fifty laps. Go.), because somehow when he slipped into Drewie, his eyes doubled in size and he lost all sense of dignity. In the space of a few seconds the great mind Jim Moriarty would transform into a giggling, loved-up, little ponce. Fawning over his one-true-love Jeremy Bristow. Climbing me like I’m a fucking tree.

Now, nice as that might sound… I don’t know if you’ve ever had your boss, a pretty fucking intimidating psychopath curling up in your lap, blinking big doe eyes at you; but I think it’s safe to say if you have, your acting wasn’t exactly the most important thing to you right then. I mean, don’t get me wrong, he pulls shit like this all the time, and when you get used to his methods, little things like that don’t phase you. But as innocent as Drewie is, that just makes his performance all the more unnerving.

Moriarty obviously realised this, because he seemed to eventually get it into his head that Andrew could be a pretty decent way of putting his sniper in uncomfortable positions, making him do things he would normally object to, a whole other type of punishment if he said or did something unsatisfactory.

Say, for example, I was getting myself into a fit of rage over some thundercunt or another, pacing and getting more frustrated every second my rant went on, and made the mistake of doing this in front of Jimbo. One minute he could be sitting behind his desk eyes following me back and forward, expression blank or close to being pissed off; he might suddenly drop everything. Eyes start to well-up, push whatever he’s doing aside and come so close to me that I’m forced to stop in my tracks and wonder what the fuck he’s doing.

And that’s when he’ll speak and I’ll shrivel up inside.

“Why are you so angry, Jerry-bean?” he’d say, taking my hands in his oh-so gently and staring up with those big fucking bush-baby eyes.

At this point, I wouldn’t have many options:

1\. Grumble something and leave before I’m tempted to pin him to the wall by his neck (which wouldn’t do too well if I wanted to keep my job, and my life);

2\. Force myself to calm down and either sit quietly or do something to occupy myself; or

3\. Play along with his bullshit as the charming Jeremy.

Of course, only after a little while of him pulling the same bullshit did I realise another solution. You’ve thought of it, haven’t you? You must have, otherwise maybe you need to go back to school, maybe read a real book for a change.

That’s right, I can fuck with him while he’s in Drewie mode. Because it’s come to my attention that Jim’s still in there, and just as frustrated with Andrew as I am, but his analytical mind presented the option as a viable solution and he had to trust that. So, still in Sebastian mode or not (because dear little Drewie sees me only as Jay either way), I can stage an argument with him, reduce him to actual tears and make the big bad wolf himself cry.

Isn’t that a sight to behold?

Some of the best lines to achieve that would be:

· “I don’t love you anymore.”

· “I’m seeing someone else.”

· “I think we should call it quits.”

This power shouldn’t be abused though, believe me, because there is continuity. It isn’t like an episode of the Simpsons, everything isn’t shaken and erased like an Etch-a-Sketch at the end of it all to start afresh with the next appearance. If Jeremy broke up with Andrew, they would still be broken up next time. So it doesn’t hurt to mend things by the end of it all.

You can see how fucking frustrating this business is now, can’t you?

As it stands, Andrew walked in on me with a girl handcuffed to a radiator. So we’re engaged.

They’re engaged.

Andrew and Jeremy, not Andrew and the girl, not me and Andrew.

Bollocks.

I did say I might touch on the origin, didn’t I? Well, suffice it to say, it was all Moriarty’s fault. He was the reason Andrew existed, and Jeremy by extension – forcing me into a situation like that. Little prick.

So, there was a job, and ain’t that how so many good stories start? We were at this couple’s counselling retreat because there was no way to get in other than as a guest or an employee, and it was so closed off, that was the only way to get any information out of the place. So obviously Jim doesn’t trust many people, and no, I’m not actually fool enough to think he trusts me, but he knows I’m loyal enough and under his thumb, so he tells me I’m going with him.

After a few mandatory therapy sessions, in which we sit there with matching looks-to-kill it becomes apparent to him that he has to give something. ‘til then, he’d mostly been reeling off everything he hated about me, and obviously I had to take it, because Christ if any situation comes up that I could bad-mouth Jim Moriarty to his face and survive to tell the tale. But things get a bit twisty, when he starts complaining about my smoking habits and the counsellor tries to convince him it’s nothing to do with the fact that he hates the smell, but actually because he’s worried about my health.

Now, I can’t help the little smirk as he tells Jim to say that to me. And Moriarty’s pride won’t let him just say that to my face, can’t blame him, I would find it a challenge.

At this point, I’d like to say (for all of those who proved a little too slow in my last few tests), we were obviously already checked in under fake names, Andrew Hickey and Jeremy Bristow, we had a vague backstory but Jim didn’t deem the job important enough to put too much effort into it all. That all changed right then though, when the pixie Southern prick was grasping my hands and had those big eyes and was suddenly pouring his heart out in that stupid voice and the therapist was smiling.

“You’ve made a lot of progress today.”

After that, Jeremy was forced on me. So we could make it through this bullshit. I’ll admit, a lot of it was improvised, and the fact that I hated every moment of it all was pretty obvious, but that’s still how it all started. Apparently it amused Jim enough to keep the two around, and to force me to invest my time in bettering my impression of a preppy school-teacher. So, there you go.

“What are you doing here?”

“You forgot your lunch, silly.”

Jeremy was a little surprised when his fiancé looked as if he was going to move and kiss his cheek but decided against it, what with thirty pairs of eyes staring at the animal-print clad man and their giant bespectacled teacher. Instead he passed a lunchbox into Jeremy’s hands and smiled.

“You didn’t have to do that,” he said after a moment, lips pressing into a little smile, turning his back on the class to block Andrew from their view, but suddenly changing his mind and calling out a page to turn to and read through until he was finished talking. Drewie’s eyes were transfixed on them as they pulled open their books in what seemed to be in perfect unison, not a peep, not an objection, maybe a slight flinch from one or two at the sound of his voice though. Which seemed strange with how gentle it was.

“I noticed you’d left it on the counter this morning, and I was driving by anyway,” he shrugged, finally turning back to look at Jeremy. He could see Drewie was struggling not to giggle and act quite as giddy as usual, especially when he looked back over the class and said, “they’re well-behaved, aren’t they?” The smile couldn’t be suppressed though. Big and sweet and white.

“They have a good teacher,” Jeremy replied, mirroring the smile a little awkwardly. “Can you stay? It’s almost lunch-time anyway, we could eat together before you go back to work.”

Drewie looked flattered, definitely tempted but he reluctantly shook his head, looking like a little kid whose mother had told him to tell his friends he wasn’t allowed to go out and play today. “I’m too busy today, I’m sorry.” He took one last look around the classroom before he took a step away, “but I’ll see you when you get home.”

For a moment Jeremy could swear there was a slip in Drewie’s expression, something dark, a telling look that he had never seen sweep across the man’s features before, like he had noticed something that would mean trouble for Jerry, that gave him a chill, but it was gone as soon as it had appeared.

“Okay, I’ll see you then.”

“Love you!”

“Love you too, Drew.”

For the rest of the day Jeremy would wonder if he had imagined that slip of expression. Like something else dwelled within his sweet little boyfriend. Something terrifying.

And somewhere deep inside Jeremy Bristow, just as Andrew finally turned to walk away, a gruff little voice said “awk fuck”.


	7. Good Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon #6: When Jim Sleeps

He had the feeling today was going to be a particularly good day. 

There was nothing obviously special about it, but he woke up feeling like he had the power to make it go however he wanted. He knew he was right when he saw Moriarty’s bedroom door was closed. It was only ever closed on the rare occasions that he decided to sleep; and the fact he was sleeping was always good in Sebastian’s eyes. 

When he slept, he slept deep. Hence the door being shut. Security. Hence only finding sleep when Sebastian was around. Safe. 

This allowed the sniper to enter his room, and place that ritual cup of tea on the night stand beside him; before his run, before his breakfast, before his first smoke of the day even, here he was crawling onto the bed and pulling down the zip of his employer’s trousers. Jim Moriarty, full-clothed, completely unconscious; but not for long. 

He was gentle, taking care, rewarding the man for sleeping, waking him up in the best way Sebastian knew how. His hand moved in smooth strokes until he started to respond, and then his tongue traced the shaft. After a few moments of licking and sucking, he heard a faint moan escape his boss’ lips. And of course, he didn’t stop.

Like I said, he hadn’t had breakfast yet. 

Only when he had brought him to orgasm, let him come, did Sebastian slide off the bed, dragging an arm across his lips to wipe that last trace of salty wetness away. He didn’t even spare Jim a glance before he left to continue with his routine, practically denying this interruption had even occurred. 

And he could have discarded it as a mere fantasy, had it not been for the uncharacteristic ruffling of his hair when Moriarty passed him by later that morning, hand lingering just enough as it slid down his back and disappeared with the tiny footsteps moving away, letting him know that he’d done well.


	8. Vicbastian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> AU: Victor Trevor and Sebastian Moran, working together to find Sherlock Holmes post fall. Things don't quite go to plan.

He had slipped. That much was obvious. And he had watched himself slipping as the days passed by, time trickling through his fingers like sand. For a while, he hated Victor. A long, long while. When they exchanged words at all, it was business, and from Sebastian, only a few short words at a time. His mind was focused then, in the beginning. All that mattered was bringing his former employer some justice by taking the life of Sherlock Holmes, and then Victor Trevor.

Those were his intentions at least.

The close quarters though, watching the man day after day, barely giving him a few moments to himself, barely sleeping even. It wore on him. He supposed it was spending so much time with one person and gaining some sort of familiarity with him was how it started. And maybe the hatred had some twisted grip on it too. But he found himself slowly letting go his control. The firm grasp on Victor’s reins started to slip, slip, slip. They grew closer to Moran’s goal for a while, and then… nothing.

With every particle of hope he would achieve redemption disappearing in the wind, he began to notice the solace he found in Trevor’s presence. He had been alone for so long, isolated and broken. And as weeks passed, and Winter drew in, he started to let go completely. Allowing himself to sleep. Allowing Victor to leave.

What surprised him was that the man came back.

Time dripped on, but still the other returned.

And though his first few visits seemed to be their same routine of combing through information, and trying to find some lead to Sherlock’s whereabouts and intentions, gradually it became less and less about that. Sebastian could see maps and clippings and photos falling from the walls and disappearing. Stacks of files and pages and tapes and notes began to shorten and fade from existence. His obsession with finding Holmes was leaving him, but it was being replaced by something else entirely.

Victor, so put together. Sebastian, so broken apart.

After a while, his words weren’t so much related to business, they weren’t so scarce. He let Victor in, not just to the flat now, but to his life. And that in itself was something that shocked Sebastian; because he trusted him. This man should have been his enemy, with those eyes like the ocean and that smile like the sun.

When time seemed to pass quickly not because he was losing sight of his goal, but because the time he spent with Victor was increasingly precious, he knew he had become dependent on something else. Someone else. Another addiction, but one that was starting to make sense.

Trevor didn’t visit, one day, two days, three days, and Sebastian found himself leaving Conduit Street and making his way back to where it had begun: in that quaint little flat with the scent of Victor hanging in the air like the light that clung to the dust and gave the place a deep sense of home and belonging. He understood then, when he stood just-too-close to the man, and looked him in the eyes. And it was soft, it was knowing.

That was the real beginning.

Looking into his eyes and seeing Victor looking back, and really seeing – Sebastian didn’t need all of the king’s horses and all of the king’s men. He only needed one man to put him back together again.


	9. Staying Alive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Headcanon: When Jim died.

Twisting, turning, falling.

He couldn’t stop the twitch of his lips pulling into a thin smirk. Victory.

He breathed out slowly, and let his hand relax on a trigger unpulled. He might have liked to linger and watch from his perch, but he had his orders. Only once he had packed away all trace of his presence did he allow himself to send a single text, ‘you should have seen his face’. 

The blonde did allow himself the satisfaction of walking past the unfolding chaos though, doing his best to suppress the smug satisfaction tugging on his features, melting it down to the sick curiosity most passers-by expressed. He waited by the car as he had been told to do. A quick getaway.

Or that’s what it was supposed to be.

Ten minutes passed. Twenty, he let himself check his phone. No reply. That wasn’t unheard of. More often than not the messages that passed between them were business anyway, only if necessary. He had assumed the other wanted to bask in the glory of it all, but perhaps not this long. He let another five minutes pass before he left his gear in the car and made his way up, up, up the busy stone building.

It’s a funny thing, being caught off guard. Especially for the blonde. It wasn’t something that happened often. Like say, when a target you expected to be innocent and frightened in the face of danger instead pulls a gun on you and tries to hold their own. Or, when you step onto the roof of St Bart’s and expect to see a smug, toothy grin staring back at you and instead see your boss bleeding on the concrete.

You should have seen his face.

The blonde paused, letting the heavy door slam behind him, not even flinching at the noise which sounded too much like a gunshot. He waited more than a few beats, fully expecting the other man to laugh, because oh look, he had been fooled again. He was such an eternal idiot.

But he didn’t.

He just lay there, still, lifeless.

Dead.

He closed the gap between them, crouching by the body. And fuck if that sinister grin and those wide doe eyes weren’t staring right at him, mocking him. Of course it was going to end this way, Moran, it always had to. Even you should have seen that.

You should have seen his face.

The worst thing was, staring at his boss, with that pond of crimson forming a sadistic halo around his face, the blonde didn’t feel anything. Nothing. But, what did he expect?

Rough fingers brushed against the cooling flesh of his cheek, drifting upwards to his brow, pulling those eyelids gently shut for the last time. Finally getting some sleep. He needed it really. Overworked, dark rings under his eyes. He’d been planning all of this obsessively for weeks now. It was good to see him finally get some rest.

Staying crouched, the blonde emptied the man’s pockets, took away the Beretta.

And then he stood.

And then he left.

Disappearing.

…

He surfaced again, twice.

Once for the funeral.

Again to see the grave.

Buried under a stranger’s name, Richard Brook. Wasn’t that a sin? The greatest mind of his time, dying with the same anonymity he had lived with.

Everywhere he looked, he saw his face.


	10. Caught in a Time Slip

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Requested by SebastianWouldBeAppalled: ↻ an AU where our characters are caught in a time loop

_—-_

_Bang. Right back to the start._

Every morning’s the same; twelve days in a row, now. He’d been counting.

And no, this wasn’t in a metaphorical scene. He wasn’t going stale, he wasn’t bored, he wasn’t living a dull life that repeated. Sebastian was quite literally reliving the same day over and over ( ~~and over and over~~ ). An eternal Friday. One day that he’d rather forget. He had no way of explaining it.

The alarm buzzed on his night-stand, and a heavy hand shut it off. Today was the day. And he couldn’t remember falling asleep. He stretches and moves. No time to run, so instead he sets to work in the flat. Muscles rip at his skin like it’s stretched too thin: push-ups. Sit-ups. Pull-ups. Weights. Shower. Toast,  _pop_. Grab your gear. Out the door. Smoke,  _i n h a l e_.

Set up. Wait. Wait some more. Watch. Smoke,  _e x h a l e. _ Watch. Wait for the signal.  **Bang**.

Back to the start.

Buzzzzzz

Over and over and over.

Lucky number thirteen, he leaves the flat early. He gets to the roof at St. Bart’s before he knows Sherlock will arrive.

          _“…I’ve been kicked around since I was born. And now it’s all right, it’s O.K. And you may look the other way—”_

“Sebastian. You’re not supposed to be here.”

He takes long strides towards Jim, stopping a few paces short. He shakes his head in slow, nominal movements. “You’ve got to stop this.”

He almost looks amused, probably because he’s so close to the end. He can entertain this last feeble attempt. “Leave.”

“You can’t shoot yourself.”

His eyes narrow, as he watches Sebastian with more attention, “ _Leave._ ”

“This is going to sound… fucking insane, but I swear to Christ it’s real. I have relived this morning the past two weeks in a row. It starts the same, and it always ends with you shooting yourself.”

There’s a long silence that passes between them. Like a deer after hearing a snapped twig in the woods, Sebastian remains still but alert and waits for Jim to speak.

         _“…Feel the city breakin’, and ev’rybody shakin’—”_

“You’re being ridiculous. Leave,  _now_.”

A last attempt, his tongue runs across his lips and his fists clench, “let’s just say I’m not full of shit. You won’t remember this next time, but I will. Tell me something I can say tomorrow to make you believe that this is real. Anything, but something I wouldn’t know.”

Those dark, dark eyes stared into Sebastian’s for longer than they had ever before.

“Baxter was a bad boy. Baxter got what he deserved.”

Sebastian swallows. And he leaves.

On the thirteenth day, Jim looked at the window he knew Sebastian was watching from. Bang.

“Sebastian. You’re not supposed to be here.”

“You’ve got to stop this.”

“Leave.”

“You can’t shoot yourself.”

“ _Leave._ ”

“This is going to sound… fucking insane, but I swear to Christ it’s real. I have relived this morning the past two weeks in a row. It starts the same, and it always ends with you shooting yourself.”

         _“…You know it’s all right, it’s O.K. I’ll live to see another day—”_

“You’re being ridiculous. Leave,  _now_.”

Sebastian hesitates for a moment, unwavering, “Baxter was a bad boy. Baxter got what he deserved.”

Jim (in a sight to behold) looked suddenly quite surprised, and then suspicious. And repeated himself, “leave,” but with less hostility this time. Sebastian left, again.

         _“Somebody help me. Somebody help me, yeah.”_

Watching from a distance, this dance between the Angel and the Devil. Timeless, now. “ _You’re_ not going to do it. So the killers can be called off, then – there’s a recall code or a word or a number.” He swallowed and watched still, through the scope of his rifle. In the pit of his steely heart, he wondered if he could possibly stop this broken record from spinning and simultaneously save Jim. Witnessing his death day after day, he had yet to actually grieve, and he hoped that wouldn’t happen. He prayed he wouldn’t have to.

No matter what Sebastian could tell Jim, it wouldn’t stop him from pulling the trigger. Jim knew on that rooftop as he talked with Sherlock, as clearly as he had when he threw Sebastian a bone with the Baxter thing: the only reason he would kill himself is if he had planned to all along. If he killed himself, it was just a bow on it all. He had won, Sherlock was dead, he wasn’t alone, it was over. He had no reason to stay behind, and he didn’t care what that meant for Sebastian because as soon as he stepped this plan into action, their relationship was more or less terminated.

On the fifteenth day, Sebastian decided it was time to take matters into his own hands. He would kill Sherlock before Jim got the chance to kill himself. So, when he stepped up to meet Jim, it took only a few moments to squeeze the trigger and take Sherlock out. Jim’s eyes followed the direction of the shot to Sebastian, smiled, and he walked off the roof. Thud.

On the sixteenth day, he tried again.

Seventeen, again.

Thirty-nine.

He lost count.

Every time he killed Sherlock, Jim followed him – either at his own hand or by some incredible accident. He tried in so many different ways. He tried to fuck up Jim’s plans so perfectly. He tried to get Jim off that fucking roof forcefully. He tried and tried and tried {and failed}. He was tired.

On the one hundred and seventh day, Sebastian had a weary epiphany. His purpose was not to save Jim.

His purpose was to accompany Jim.

Bang.  _Bang_.


	11. My Fork In The Road, Your Knife In My Back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Jim left

An emptiness had settled in the flat, despite its remaining occupant. A stillness and a quiet that consumed every element. It syphoned the colour from every interesting artefact that had been deemed worthy of being displayed: every vase and rug and painting; it made flowers wilt prematurely and the milk go off just a little too soon; it made the days shorter and the nights eternal.

And the man that had been left behind, he struggled through it like wading waters (made infinitely more difficult by the still-healing ankle that lagged his every whim). There was something about the lacking presence that dragged everything down; it made the air so thick it was almost unbreathable, and the atmosphere so tense that every second lived was another wished dead.

He had started embracing the most monotonous of tasks, cleaning and cooking and washing and anything that kept him occupied enough to even marginally lift him from his own thoughts. Seeking the silence, seeking the numbness. Something  _he_ brought. He just wanted peace; but that always required distraction.

That’s why he was in the kitchen. Leaning awkwardly on a crutch while he polished at a glass, obsessively, to remove every sign of a water-spot or mark. Washing the dishes. Dishes that weren’t even dirty. Cups and plates and cutlery that hadn’t even been used in months, if ever (what a waste). His face was lined with determination as he polished and polished with the drying-towel; but his eyes were disturbingly distant. Somewhere, fighting off those dark little thoughts that made his skin crawl, trying to put everything into  _this_.

He dumped another load of plates into the already-full sink that made the water slosh and spill everywhere, pooling on the countertop and floor. He made a frustrated noise (but was somehow also pleased that he had made a mess, something else to clean).

Let me just tell you, that this is an extreme case. It isn’t the first time that he or Jim has run away, hidden somewhere else, let their minds get cleared. This isn’t even the longest the two have sustained silence and non-communication with eachother, but it’s the first time that Sebastian’s been injured enough that he couldn’t leave the flat to seek his own form of distractions. He’s been essentially, entirely housebound; and that doesn’t do well for someone with his state of mind. He’s already a broken man just trying to hold the pieces together. Jim is his constant. Without him, and without bars and girls and gambling and exercise and jobs and every other stupid little thing that happens _elsewhere;_  he’s bound to unravel. And at the minute, he’s fighting tooth and nail to stop that from happening.

But of course, in true Moran fashion, things just weren’t rock-bottom enough. He was falling again, actually, quite literally. All of his weight on a crutch, (which was now with its own little moat) his twist at the water jumping up at him caused it to slip and send him crashing down. Actually, the crash was more from the smashed glass he had been holding (not that it was smashed until it actually hit the floor, but you get what I’m saying), he was more of a dull thud and a clatter from the metal crutch.

All in all, it resulted in Sebastian lying in a crude concoction of glass and soapy water (and a little blood).

Of the obscene stream of words flooding from Sebastian’s mouth around that point, only about 40% was audible as actual English, and about 3% of that was something that could be written here that wouldn’t warrant a strongly-worded letter courtesy of ‘ _angry, from Hull_ ’ or ‘ _mildly offended, from Stoke-On-Trent_ ’. So let me just allow you to use your own imagination for that, suffice to say that it was bile-inspiring at the least.

But there’s something about your head thumping off a tile floor and meeting pieces of a glass that had beat you there that really knocks a thought into you. And maybe it was fleeting at best, but once it had occurred to dear old Sebastian, the damage was done. He was thinking how funny it was that any time Jim Moriarty was in peril, or even faced with the slightest of frustrations, he was expected to jump to him instantly (and okay, yes, that was what he was paid for); but here he was, slowly mending ankle, mind unravelling, glass wedged places it didn’t belong and both body and ego bruised… and Jim was no-where to be seen. And alright, you could say their relationship was strictly professional, and it wasn’t Jim’s job to look after him.

But… it sort of _was_.

Jim had to look after his investments, Sebastian being one of them.

He was injured, and Jim ran out.

Once that thought had passed through, it was all over. The bitterness began to spread like a virus, infecting every inch of him, every blood-cell and muscle and bone and pore. And he was angry. And why shouldn’t he be? He needed his boss, and his boss disappeared and any time he tried to communicate with him he was met with disdain and mocking – best left alone.

But alone wasn’t good for Sebastian, and if anyone new that, it should be Jim.

And yet here he was.

Completely and utterly alone.

Bleeding and in pain and alone.

He wouldn’t even touch the fucking pain pills he had been given, not after the last time. And who was that helping? Certainly not him, and the Irishman wasn’t exactly around to appreciate the effort. Fuck him.

F u c k  h i m.

What sick sort of co-dependant relationship was this? Was it even co-dependant or had Sebastian just latched on to him? He was supposed to mope around here like a lost puppy until his master returned, and they would sweep everything out of sight and forget it all. He wouldn’t mention the broken phone, the broken bone, the broken skin; and Jim wouldn’t mention what he’d been doing, where he’d been. They would fall into the same cycle as they did every time because neither men liked dealing with that touchy-feely shit. Things may be delicate at first, but eventually it would fade back to what it always was.

And like he was chained to the fence, Sebastian could do nothing to leave. Even if he wasn’t at all hurt, he couldn’t. He would stay here and wait, because he needed Jim, in a way even  _he_ didn’t understand.

And he lay there.

And half-lidded eyes stared vacantly into the blinding light above. He did nothing to move. Just waited for the ache to ease and the silence to drop back after his too-violent outburst. Probably only as loud and heated as it was to fill in the gap the silence created. That vacuumous abyss, threatening to suck him in as he grew closer and closer in likeness to the shattered glass he was lying in.

When did he become this pathetic?

Day faded into night before he moved. Eventually willing himself upright, leaning on what he could to keep the weight off of his ankle; shards of glass dripping from him like crystalline dew. He pulled the crutch with him, and he stared at the mess, and he looked at the water in the sink, bubbles dissolved, deflated like him.

Mind blank, he just started about cleaning up the floor, showering, relieving himself of the glass that had warmed to his flesh.

What was the point in bitterness?

Nothing would change.

Nothing would ever change. 


End file.
